The kitchen was warm, bathed in the soft gold of the late afternoon sun. The only sounds were the rhythmic whirr-thump, of the pump and the distant, muffled explosions and chatter from the video game in the living room.

Lillia sat at the head of the table, her robe loose. Her eyes were closed, not in rest, but in a practiced disassociation.

She had just delivered a plate of cookies and milk to the boys. Jay had grunted a thanks. , as always, had offered a small, genuine smile that seemed to land directly in the hollow part of her chest.

Footsteps.

Her eyes fluttered open. Not the heavy, distracted tread of Jay. Lighter. appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding his empty glass. He looked a little sheepish, a boyish grin playing on his lips.

A faint, automatic smile touched her lips. "Of course, sweetie. The milks is right in the—" Her hand started to gesture toward the fridge.

But she stopped. He had frozen. Not just paused, but gone completely still, his eyes locked not on her face, but lower. The grin had vanished, replaced by a look of arrested, wide-eyed absorption.

And when he froze, she did too. Because she knew. She knew exactly where he was looking.

The robe was open. Her nipples beneath the plastic shields of the pump, were on full display, the rhythmic pull and release visible, the milk flowing in thin streams into the waiting bottles. It was a clinical, maternal sight to her own family—as unremarkable as a toaster. But wasn’t family.

Her breath caught. A hot, shameful flush crept up her neck, but beneath it, deeper and more potent, was a surge of something else—a startling, electric awareness. He wasn’t looking away in polite, awkward haste. He was looking. Seeing what her husband refused to see. Seeing the vulnerability, the biology, the sheer womanhood of the act.

For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. The world narrowed to the kitchen, the pump, and his unwavering, un-innocent gaze.